


Strange Chicken

by wrothmothking



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s02e10 The Legion of Doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23208877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: A quiet moment leads to something new.
Relationships: Damien Darhk/Malcolm Merlyn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Strange Chicken

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [Strange Chicken 奇怪的懦夫](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682206) by [Sophia2000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia2000/pseuds/Sophia2000)



Working in congress with Damien reminds him of his League days, before he was Ra's--the same fire forged their steel, and because of that they move as echoes of one another, moving in concert across their chosen battlefield until they're the last two alive. But there's more: an ever-present buzz under the skin, lightning in his veins whenever Damien smiles at him or sends him a particularly nasty glare—at first, he'd mistaken it for fear, shoved it deep to hide from the shame that came with it. Settled into their partnership, as safe from each other as they can be from anyone given the lives they lead, Malcolm finds himself having fun. The line between teasing and mocking, playing and fighting, is a hair's breadth, the difference decided wholly by mood, and yet he welcomes this occasional hostility, not angling or manipulating to save his own skin or set Damien loose on someone else. He just rolls with it, acts his most natural self, cedes control of the relationship. It's a carelessness he hasn't applied to any person or thing in years. He finds himself happy.

(Except Tommy's dead, and Thea's trapped herself in a burning tower. And Damien doesn't remember their previous/future alliance, something not altogether unfortunate, except Malcolm forgets, living moment-to-moment as he is instead of orchestrating entire conversations, and he'll reference some event, some piece of dialogue, and the blank stare Damien gives him spawns a terrible coldness in his chest. He shouldn't forget: this Damien is wilder, bloodthirsty, untethered by a wife and daughter and a dream on the precipice of realization. Malcolm finds he doesn't mind the distinction, only the loss.)

“Something on your mind, Malcolm?”

Speak of the devil.

“Don't worry, it's nothing pertaining to you,” Malcolm lies, the venom sweet on his tongue.

“'Worry'? About a little thing like you?”

It rankles, as all things do these days. They're the same height, but Damien's greater breadth and domineering personality dwarf him. His stature as a veritable lord of his city may've come before the League, and a king he shall make himself, yet _assassin_ is what he was born to be, reflected in the lithe, unassuming musculature of his body, his dark temperament, his natural aptitude for sleight of hand, with or without the weight of a knife behind it. Damien wasn't meant for the League; the League was meant for Malcolm.

Had the League still existed, the thought would be a comfort.

As it stands, he has himself, and he has Damien, and, occasionally, Eobard, if on a much different level. So, Malcolm doesn't force the fight despite the thunderstorm raging in his skull, and executes the delicate art of _letting things go._ Serenity, thy name is Merlyn.

Malcolm scoffs. “Cute.”

Damien smirks as he cups his own cheek. “Glad you think so.”

Truthfully, Malcolm would classify Damien as 'handsome', or 'pretty', in an oddly masculine way. Calling him 'cute' is almost an affront for how horribly it fits.

His consideration must be visible some way—the distant heat darkening his eyes as they roved Damien's figure, the beat of silence possessed by a tension alien to them, the curious tilt of his head offering the vulnerable, attractive curve of his neck. Damien's expression goes carefully neutral. The pervasive ice in his _pretty_ blue eyes melts.

“I have to say, Malcolm, I never thought you would allow yourself to succumb to _lust_.” A pause, a smile. “Or is it _infatuation_?”

It would be easy to deny it. Roll his eyes and leave. Scowl and snarl his disgust. Sass him for making such a conceited assumption, regardless of what he _thought_ Malcolm's body language was screaming. But he's not lied to Damien yet, and there's an unfamiliar purity in that he doesn't want to tarnish—not yet, not over this. They're adults, what's it matter that one of them has a functioning libido and caught a couple inconvenient feelings as a consequence? It changes nothing. Just another thing for Damien to mock him over for when he's feeling playful, or cruel.

“Everyone has needs,” he says. Shrugs.

“So casual,” Damien mutters through a frown.

Malcolm holds his ground as he approaches. The distance between them closes to a foot, then half. Malcolm has to crane his neck to look at Damien, still sat in his chair—and then he's not the only one. Damien sits astride his lap, his knees framing Malcolm's thighs, a test, a tease. It's not like the idle daydreams he'd allowed himself in moments of weakness, for he'd assumed he would be the one in Damien's lap, given his smaller body mass. He was right to; it's an uncomfortable position. They're both open to attack, Damien facing a wall, Malcolm pinned under him. The pleasantness of Damien's warmth is erased by his looming. His neck hurts.

Then Damien grabs his jaw with a firm grip, and Malcolm can no longer glare sullenly at his collarbone. When their eyes meet, he finds a question there he can't identify.

And he doesn't have time to wonder.

Or maybe he does; seconds must tick as Damien's face slowly inches closer to his own, but for Malcolm, time may as well have stopped existing completely. All that remains real are the two of them: the heat, the weight pressing him down, the soft, jasmine-scented skin of Damien's hand, the shallow exhales hitting his face. Even the chair vanishes from beneath them, leaving them suspended in a void he hasn't the wherewithal to process. Not once during these seconds does Malcolm realize what's going to happen, for not once before has the possibility of _them_ been alluded to by lingering glance, unnecessary touch, open affection. But perhaps Damien has been hiding, too, but the quiet moment and comfort of honest partnership forced him out. The smile, the discontented murmur, this strange game of chicken where the aim isn't to be the last one holding out, but for them both to.

What happens is this: they kiss. Damien's lips are soft and tasting of his strawberry lip balm, and when they part, he finds the mint from his tea. Unbidden, his hands cup Damien's face.

As they part, a whisper at the back of his mind warns to be cautious. Whatever comes, there's no way this can end well. None. Malcolm believes it.

Yet, instead of shoving Damien off of him, he pulls him closer, into another kiss.


End file.
